clear a million on that deal, probably more. So Brigham did instead of me, and she got her share of it. She gives things to men, including her favors if you want to call it that, but all the time her main object is herself. She got her share. That’s what I’ve got instructions about. See if you can find it. She’s got it salted away somewhere and maybe you can find it. Maybe you can get a lead to it through Brigham. Get next to him. He’s a goddamn snob, but he won’t be snooty to my secretary if you handle him right. Another possibility is Jim Eber. Get next to him too. You met him yesterday. I don’t know just what your approach will be, but you should be able to work that out yourself. And don’t forget our deal-yours and mine. Ten thousand the day she’s out of here, with my son staying, and fifty thousand more when the divorce papers are signed.”
I had been wondering if he had forgotten about that. I was also wondering if he figured that later, remembering that he had told me Thursday night to get next to Jim Eber, I would regard that as evidence that he hadn’t been aware that Eber was no longer approachable.
I reminded him that it takes two to make a deal and that I hadn’t accepted his offer, but he waved that away as not worth discussing. His suggestion that I cultivate Eber made it relevant for me to ask questions about him, and I did so, but while some of the answers I got might have been helpful for getting to know him better, none of them shed any light on the most important fact about him, that he was dead. He had been with Jarrell five years, was unmarried, was a Presbyterian but didn’t work at it, played golf on Sunday, was fair to good at bridge, and so on. I also collected some data on Corey Brigham.
When Jarrell finished with me and I went, leaving him at his desk, I stood outside for a moment, on the rug that walked like a man, or a woman, debating whether to go and join the pinochle players, to observe them from the new angle I now had on the whole bunch, or to go for a walk and call Wolfe to tell him what Jarrell’s instructions had been. It was a draw, so I decided to do neither and went upstairs to bed.
I slept all right, I always sleep, but woke up at seven o’clock. I turned over and shut my eyes again, but nothing doing. I was awake. It was a damn nuisance. I would have liked to get up and dress and go down to the studio and hear the eight o’clock news. It had been exactly ten-thirty when I had phoned headquarters to tell them, in falsetto, that they had better take a look at a certain apartment at a certain number on 49th Street, and by now the news would be out and I wanted to hear it. But on Tuesday I had appeared for breakfast at 9:25, on Wednesday at 10:15, and on Thursday at 9:20, and if I shattered precedent by showing before eight, making for the radio, and announcing what I had heard to anyone available-and it would be remarkable not to announce it-someone might have wondered how come. So when my eyes wouldn’t stay closed no matter which side I tried, I lay on my back and let them stay open, hoping they liked the ceiling. They didn’t. They kept turning-up, down, right, left. I got the impression that they were trying to turn clear over to see inside. When I found myself wondering what would happen if they actually made it I decided that had gone far enough, kicked the sheet off, and got up.
I took my time in the shower, and shaving, and putting cuff links in a clean shirt, and other details; and history repeated itself. I was pulling on my pants, getting the second leg through, when there was a knock at the door, and nothing timid about it. I called out, “Who is it?”, and for reply the door opened, and Jarrell walked in.
I spoke. “Good morning. Come some time when I’ve got my shoes on.”
He had closed the door. “This can’t wait. Jim Eber is dead. They found his body in his apartment. Murdered. Shot.”
I stared, not overdoing it. “For God’s sake. When?”
“I got it on the radio-the eight o’clock news. They found him last night. He was shot in the head, in the back. That’s all it said. It didn’t mention that he worked for me.” He went to a chair, the big one by the window, and sat. “I want to discuss it with you.”
I had put my shoes and clean socks by that chair, intending to sit there to put them on. Going to get them, taking another chair, pulling my pants leg up, and starting a sock on, I said, “If they don’t already know he worked for you they soon will, you realize that.”
“Certainly I realize it. They may phone, or come, any minute. That’s what I want to discuss.”
I picked up the other sock. “All right, discuss. Shoot.”
“You know what a murder investigation is like, Goodwin. You know that better than I do.”
“Yeah. It’s no fun.”
“It certainly isn’t. Of course they may already have a line on somebody, they may even have the man that did it, there was nothing on the radio about that. But if they haven’t, and if they don’t get him soon, you know what it will be like. They’ll dig everywhere as deep as they can. He was with me five years, and he lived here. They’ll want to know everything about him, and it’s mostly here they’ll expect to get it.”
I was tying a shoelace. “Yeah, they have no respect for privacy, when it’s murder.”
He nodded. “I know they haven’t. And I know the best way to handle it is to tell them anything they want to know, within reason. If they think I’m holding out that will only make it worse, I appreciate that. One thing I want to discuss with you, they’ll ask why I fired Eber and what do I say?”
I had my shoes on now and was on equal terms. Conferring in bare feet with a man who is properly shod may not put you at a disadvantage, but it seems to. It may be because he could step on your toes. With mine now protected, I said, “Just tell them why you fired him. That you suspected him of leaking business secrets.”
He shook his head. “If I do that they’ll want details-what secrets he leaked and who to, all that. That would take them onto ground where I don’t want them. I would rather tell them that Eber was getting careless, he seemed to be losing interest, and I decided to let him go. No matter who else they ask, nobody could contradict that, not even Nora, except one person. You. If they ask you, you can simply say that you don’t know much about it, that you understand that I was dissatisfied with Eber but you don’t know why. Can’t you?”
I was frowning at him. “This must have given you quite a jolt, Mr. Jarrell. You’d better snap out of it. Two of Mr. Wolfe’s oldest and dearest enemies, and mine, are Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins of Homicide. The minute they catch sight of me and learn that I’m here under another name in Eber’s job, the sparks will start flying. No matter what reason you give them for firing him they won’t believe you. They won’t believe me. They won’t believe anybody. The theory they’ll like best will be that you decided that Eber had to be shot and got me in as a technical consultant. That may be stretching it a little, but it gives you an idea.”
“Good God.” He was stunned. “Of course.”
“So I can’t simply say I don’t know much about it.”
